


Every Cripple Has His Own Way of Walking

by rubygirl29



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 19:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Avengers save the world, they split apart; each dealing with the events in their own way. After finding Pepper weeping over a set of Captain America trading cards, Tony Stark decides that enough is enough and starts putting the puzzle pieces together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Cripple Has His Own Way of Walking

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the story is a quote attributed to Brendan Behan. I don't own _The Avengers_ , I just borrow them occasionally. I needed to write a fix-it ... because. There are movie **SPOILERS ******everywhere. Proceed with caution.
> 
> There really is a roadside attraction called the Mecca of albino squirrels between Chicago and Iowa.

Thor returns Loki to Asgard. Bruce and Tony drive off in a BMW convertible. Cap takes his motorcycle, gets a map of Route 66 and rides off to find the America he lost. Natasha looks at Clint. "Fuck or drink?" she asks. He isn't sure if she's joking or serious.

Clint appreciates the offer, but either way he'd be screwed and Tasha knows it. She wraps her arms around his waist and they stand by the fountain in Central Park until the sun sets and the evening grows cold. 

"What will you do?" Her expression is concerned, uncharacteristically gentle.

He shrugs. "Maybe I'll be like Cap and go to find America ... or something." He looks at the skyline. Most of New York is untouched. The battle to save the world occupied an incredibly tiny section of Manhattan. "I need to ..." His throat closes over the words. "Get back what Loki took from me."

"He didn't take anything that was _you_." She knows it's not true. Loki took the heart from him. Clint used the word 'unmade' and that's something that couldn't be fixed. It could only be mended like a badly broken bone and it would hurt viciously as it healed. He is being ravaged by jagged edges of grief and guilt. He turns away from her compassion and she wants to weep.

He draws a rough breath. "What about you?"

Natasha shrugs. "Paris. I like Paris. After that? I don't know." She shivers. "Are you sure you don't want to take me up on my offer?"

Clint gives her a faint smile. "Maybe after Paris." He hugs her gently. "Let me know when you get back?"

"I'll find you," she says. He has no doubt that she will. He hails a cab for her. it will be months before he hears from her again.  


At first, he does what he said; he gets on his bike and rides. He stays off the freeways and sticks to rural routes that wind through the Blue Ridge Mountains. He camps out when the weather is good and sleeps in cheap motels when it's inclement. He leaves the mountains and rides through the rolling central plains of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois. 

He is drawn like a magnet to the one place he recalled as home. Waverly, Iowa. He arrives on the main drag at twilight on an autumn night that feels more like summer. There is a cafe and a library and a white house that says _West Bremer Inn. Rooms to Let._ with a vacancy sign suspended from a white post. It is both familiar and foreign. He doesn't remember the town looking so bucolic and clean. He considers driving back to the truck stop he saw on the outskirts of Waverly, but he's tired and heartsick. The dust of the road clings to his throat and skin. He locks his bike and walks up the broad steps to the front door. It opens when he turns the handle. A bell chimes softly at his entrance. 

A middle-aged woman comes out from the back, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. "I'm sorry, I was making biscuits." She looks him over from head to toe, not quite approving, but still smiling. 

"Is a room still available?"

"Yes." She opens a register and he writes his name; _Francis Clinton Barton_ because that's what is on his driver's license. She looks at him, at his signature. "There used to be a Barton family in town."

Clint shakes his head. "No relation." It's a lie, but he wants the past to remain in the past, at least until he decides whether to stay. Right now, he's planning to leave in the morning. 

"I'm Lydia Masters." She holds out her hand and Clint shakes it courteously. He's learned manners in the last few years, mostly from Phil. He closes his eyes against the sudden ache.

"You all right?"

Clint shakes off the sadness. "I've been on the road since 5am."

"Well, if you want dinner, the diner is open until eight. After that, folks kind of roll up the sidewalks 'round here."

That much hasn't changed. Clint follows Mrs. Masters up the stairs. She unlocks the door. "This room has its own bath. Towels are in the chest at the foot of the bed."

"Thank you." She leaves him and he turns on the light. The room is attractive, plain. Not frilly. There is a pine double bed, and a matching chest and armoire. The bed is covered with a old, soft patchwork quilt. The lamps are electrified antiques. _Phil would like this place,_ Clint thinks before he can cut the thought off at the root. God, it hurts. He sinks down on the bed and buries his face in his hands. It is a rare luxury to let himself think about Phil. About how he never said goodbye, about the part he had in the attack on S.H.I.E.L.D. that resulted in Loki murdering -- _Stop it, Clint._ he can practically hear Natasha's voice. So he does, putting the emotions back in their box and getting towels out of the chest.

He showers in the bliss of hot water and fresh-scented soap. He wraps himself in the big, soft towels and lies down. He doesn't intend to sleep, but when he wakes, the windows are dark. He fumbles for his watch. Nearly eight. If he wants dinner, he'd better get a move on. He dresses in clean clothes still creased from being in his backpack and jogs across the street to the diner. 

The waitress is a thin woman who gives him a valiant but tired smile that telegraphs the message that she's all in and wishes he would go away, but she'll wait on him because that's what she does. "I don't have much left," she says.

"Soup?" Clint asks. He knows at the end of the day there's usually soup left. 

"Chicken The rice is probably mush by now."

Clint, who has eaten bugs off the ground in his SERE training, just nods. "That'll do."

"I've got some bread?"

"That's good."

"I wish all my customers were so simple," she says and ladles out a bowl of soup.

It tastes fine to him, even if the rice is mush. The bread is homemade and warm. She asks if he wants coffee. He nods and she pours some. The caffeine won't keep him awake. His dreams are what wake him in the middle of the night; kneeling on the floor and gasping for breath. He doesn't scream. Silence has been ingrained in him since childhood. 

When he's finished eating he takes out a twenty and tucks it under his coffee mug. The waitress looks up from cleaning the griddle and he tells her to keep the change -- he has plenty of cash for now and a bank account that S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't know about under one of his old identities. 

He doesn't sleep well, but he doesn't have any nightmares, either. He's up at first light. He wonders if the diner is open yet. The lights are on and the sign is flipped. Early to bed and early to rise. He's forgotten what real life is like away from New York. There is a counter full of the early birds, drinking coffee. "Hey, Malvina! We're gettin' hungry out here!" One of the men calls. 

"I've only got two hands, Willis." It's the same woman from last night. She emerges from the kitchen with plates balanced on her forearm and hand. "The food don't cook itself," she says as she puts plates of eggs, bacon, toast and hash browns in front of Willis and the two men on either side of him.

"Darlin', I've been here for fifteen minutes waitin' on a fried egg," another man says. "Can't live on coffee."

Malvina blows a lock of graying brown hair off of her forehead. "You're up next, Paul. I promise."

"Hey, Malvina, can I have some syrup for these pancakes?" A different voice from down the line and Clint leans forward. 

"Are you alone back there?"

"For another week or so. Once the college break is over, the temps will be back. Until then I'm chief cook and bottle washer." She gives him a wan smile. "I'll live."

Clint looks at the line of customers. "Want some help? I've done my share of line-cooking." 

"Really?"

"I fry up a mean mess of hash browns."

"You'll only get paid in tips," she says doubtfully. 

"That's fine."

"I don't know your name."

"Clint."

"Malvina! Quit flirting and move your sweet li'l ..."

Clint's elbow just happens to connect with the man's gut. "Oops. Sorry," he apologizes guilelessly. He snags a towel from a rack and ties it around his middle. "What can I get for you, sir?"

"Coffee ..." he wheezes. "And some wheat toast with an over-easy egg and hash browns."

Clint takes over the griddle while Malvina starts setting out dishes and taking orders. He wasn't lying, he really can cook, and after a while he and Malvina sync up easily. Two hours later, the breakfast rush is over. Clint cleans the flattop and grill while Malvina finishes up in the kitchen. She comes out and hands him a cup of coffee. 

"Here ya go. Thanks, Clint. You're a life saver." 

She really has _no_ idea how close she is to the truth of what he does. Or did. "No problem."

"What can I fix for you?" she asks.

"I can do it."

"No. You sit. I'll cook."

Clint orders hotcakes with blueberry syrup, orange juice and sausage. He knows the hotcakes and sausage just need to be heated up. "So, when does lunch start?"

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

By the end of the day, Clint is tired -- the good tired he feels after a day on the range or hard PT; not tired like he is after an op, which is bone deep and muscle-aching exhaustion that requires days to replenish his body reserves. It's the first time he's felt like this since ... since everything hit the fan. Since ... Phil. His brain stops right there like it hits a brick wall. If he thinks about that, he'll die of a broken heart. Bereft and alone, he still won't surrender. 

"You coming back tomorrow?" Malvina asks him, hopeful but not certain that he will. She sets a burger and a plate of fries in front of him and sits on a counter stool. 

"Sure. Why not?"

"I still can't pay you."

Clint pulls out a wad of singles and counts them. "Twenty-five bucks. That's good for now."

Malvina shakes her head. "That's three bucks an hour. Not even minimum wage."

Clint tilts his head. "I'm on vacation. I don't need much. Spending money and free meals? I'm ahead of the game."

"It's not my idea of vacation," she laughs and rubs her tired ankles. "Rest up, Clint. Tomorrow's Saturday and we'll be swamped for breakfast. Lunch is easier. I close at six on Saturdays and take Sundays off."

"Sounds good." He gives the counter a final swipe before sitting down. "Good burger."

She laughs. "You made it, not me." Clint grins back and keeps eating. Malvina toys with a french fry. "So, what brings you to Waverly?"

"Just doing some traveling."

"You've been in the military," Malvina says. "I can tell."

There's no use in lying. "Yes, ma'am."

She pats his hand. "You look sad, but I won't ask questions about that. I'm just plain glad you showed up this morning."

Clint doesn't meet her eyes. He finishes his burger. "I'll see you in the morning, Miss Malvina. Do you want an escort home?" 

"Hon, I live upstairs. I'm pretty sure I can make it to my place safely." 

"I reckon you can," he says. He pushes away from the counter and waits outside until she locks the door. He stays watching until the lights go out and the second floor lights come on, then he heads back to the inn.

Malvina is right. Saturday mornings are insane, but no more so than stopping the Chitauri from destroying Manhattan. Lunch is slower and by 3pm, Clint is finishing cleaning up the cooktop and counter. Malvina is running the dishwasher, and humming as she sweeps up. "Go on, Clint. I'll finish up," she calls. "See you Monday."

Clint waves a farewell and returns to the inn to clean up. He takes his clothes to the laundromat and while he's waiting, he walks down to the library to use the internet. He is briefly startled by the librarian who has hair nearly the same color as Natasha's. He checks his email, not sure what he is expecting to see in his inbox. A few spam emails, daily news digests which seem to talk a lot about Tony Stark and Stark Industries. Nothing else. He rubs his chest as if he feels the physical ache of his heart and logs off. 

The librarian, who really doesn't look much like Natasha, asks if he needs help. "I'm looking for local history about an orphanage that used to be around here?"

"The county home closed fifteen, maybe twenty years ago," she says. "However, the director wrote a history. It's a reference book, so you'll have to use it here." She hands him a thick, buckram-bound book. 

Clint takes it over to a table and sits. His hand shake slightly. He turns to the back, where there is a list of names. _Ballard, Bannock, Barsinski, Barstein, Barton, Francis C. and Bernard (Barney) Barton._ He rubs his fingers across the words, expecting them to burn like fire, but they no longer have any power over him. His past has been burned to dust. 

"We're closing, sir," the librarian says quietly. "I'll need the book back."

Clint blinks at his watch."Sorry."

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes," he hands her the book."Thank you."

He wakes in the middle of the night reaching for Phil, who isn't beside him. Shaken and unable to sleep, he gets on his bike and rides out of town to Angels Rest cemetery. This, he remembers with perfect clarity. Graveyards don't change; the stones may wear and crumble, the earth may sink over the graves, weeds may claim the grass, but they aren't erased. The gates are flanked by two stone angels. Their features have been blunted by time and wind into featureless masks. 

Clint finds his parents' grave and sits cross-legged in front of his mother's headstone as the sun rises. He feels so _alone_. He's felt like this before and thought the antidote was Natasha. Instead, she was the poison ... and then she was gone and he was saved by a man in a black suit and a bland, calm expression that hid a mind like a sword. He takes out a bloodstained Captain America card. Every time he touches it, his heart breaks. There, at his mother's grave, in the breaking dawn, Clint finally gives up and sobs out his grief. There is no one to hear but the wind and the grass and the stone-hearted angels. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

It is Tony Stark who launches the first furtive investigations after he finds Pepper sobbing over a crappy duplicate Captain America card. It isn't just that Phil is _gone_ , it's that they never had a memorial. Nobody _mourned_ him, she sobs into Tony's collar. 

This, this is something he can't deal with. He's not a sentimentalist, but when he cares about somebody, he cares deeply. He decides to hack into S.H.I.E.L.D. to see what the fuck is going on that they can't even hold a decent service for one of their own. He programs Jarvis to run a sweep using a back door protocol that he used several years ago when he was asked to find a vulnerability. He found several, reported most of them, but left this one just to be nosy -- or in an emergency. Pepper, in tears, is an emergency to him. 

Tony programs Jarvis to follow the money. It's usually the most telling of all clues. He checks out casualty figures, bodies, transports. There are no names, just numbers; and one discrepancy that could be a typo, but that doesn't feel right to him. There are two bodies, one coded 660077, and one coded 6600077. There is a 660078, but no 6600078. Tony searches medical files. 660077 was DOA in Medical. He was an African-American male. 6600077 was transported to the burn unit at NYU hospital. No other data. So, not a typo. It gets Tony thinking. Burn units were one of the most sequestered units in hospitals due to the high risk of infection, the need for specific pain medications and special treatments. It was also a unit where it was possible to wrap a patient's face in bandages, no questions asked. It didn't mean _anything_ , Tony tells himself. Maybe there really was a burn patient assigned to the code. Maybe there is another explanation. 

He accesses Jarvis' data banks and pulls up the financials. He skips the supply requisitions, the ammunition orders, repair and maintenance. He goes right to payroll. Some bean counter screwed up. All the deceased received their last paychecks in the pay period that ended the day before the attack. All the deceased except the mysterious 6600077 who is still drawing pay. 

That's a red flag. The burn unit is a red flag. No memorial service is a red flag. Tony tells Jarvis to run a list of S.H.I.E.L.D. safe houses in the United States. There is no way to tell which ones are in operation. He runs a program that monitors energy use in neighborhoods where the safe houses are located. 

Only five are using enough electricity to indicate habitation. Two are in Texas, one in New Mexico. One in Alaska, and one in Portland. _Portland_ , where the "cellist" lives. "Fury, you bastard. I've got you now," Tony whispers. "Jarvis, wipe out all data retrieved from S.H.I.E.L.D. databases, burn the trail and close that security breach. Backdate to the report filed in October 2010, and order the jet. File a flight plan to Malibu." Tony makes one other call, to Rhodey. "Hey, buddy, Can you give me a lift from Malibu to Portland in the morning?"

"Portland? What's in Portland?"

"A cellist," Tony says. "And a lot of questions."

"Sure. Give me a call when you get to Malibu."

Tony sleeps in his Malibu mansion. He conducts a meeting with his West Coast division. He calls Pepper and tells her he's going to look at some property for a new facility in Seattle. He almost believes it himself. He meets Rhodey at Edwards AFB and they go for a spin in a new fighter jet before they catch a military transport to Portland International Airport where the Portland Air National Guard is based. "Thanks, Rhodey," he says as he exits the plane. 

"What's going on, Tony?"

"Like I said. I need to look up a cellist."

"Thinking of starting an orchestra?"

"You never know." Tony climbs into the rental BMW, and drives off into a cloud of dust. On his way to the safe house, he stops at a convenience store and buys a pack of powdered sugar doughnuts. 

The safe house is located in Multnomah, on a quiet residential street. It's a small, gray-sided house with white woodwork and rose vines climbing on the trellises. It looks suburban, clean, innocent. It also has good sight lines to the street, a wide driveway and easy access to the highways. Perfect cover, perfect access. Innocent, until you looked at it through the eyes of an analyst.

There is a black Chevy Malibu in the driveway. Tony runs the plates. The car is registered to a Peter Campbell. A Google search comes up with a few matches, but none of them are in Portland. 

Tony gets out of the car and goes up the path to the front door. He's sure there are security cameras, but at this point, he's past caring. He just wants to find out if he's right. He'll apologize to Fury and give him a new gadget if he's wrong. 

He goes up the front steps and knocks on the white door. There is a camera, a standard peephole, and a keypad. He hears soft steps, a bit slow. "No soliciting," a weary, voice says; familiar even distorted by the raspy speaker.

"6600078, I presume? I have doughnuts." He raises the sack.

There is a silence, a sigh, and the door opens. Looking washed out but very much alive, Phil Coulson stands in front of him. "I should have known it would be you," he sighs. "Come in."

Like most safe houses, this one looks like it came out of an Ikea catalog. Clean, uncluttered, fashionable. Not expensively decorated, but not done in cast-offs, either. It is completely, utterly devoid of personality, of _Phil_. "Did Fury send you?" Coulson asks.

Tony's brow raises. "You're joking, right?" 

"I don't know. I've never been dead before. Can I get you something to drink?"

"I should get you something," Tony says, seeing what little color Coulson has in his face leaching away slowly. "Are you allowed bourbon?"

"For medicinal purposes." A smile ghosts across his face.

"I'd say this qualifies." 

Phil gestures to a low cupboard. "That's the bar."

Tony opens the doors and whistles. Apparently, being dead merits top shelf liquor. He pours two Woodford bourbons and adds ice from the refrigerator. He hands Phil a glass. "To only being part dead."

They drink and some color returns to Coulson's face to Tony's relief. "How did you find me?" he asks. 

"I'm very good at what I do," Tony says. "I used all available resources and a few that shouldn't have been available."

"Fury won't be happy." Phil smiles slightly. 

"Fury needs my toys and Iron Man. I think I'm safe. Who else knows you're alive?"

"Fury, Hill. My doctors."

"Not your cellist?"

Phil's eyes widen. "About that cellist ..."

Stark shakes his head. "I take it the cellist plays with a very different kind of bow." This time the color in Coulson's face deepens and Tony rolls his eyes. "It's not like we didn't know -- well, like Pepper and I know, and Natasha. Steve pretends he doesn't know. Thor? He's a god and he doesn't care. Banner hasn't been around enough to know anything."

"How are they?"

Even Tony can hear the words Coulson wants to say. _How is he?_ He answers the spoken question first. "We won."

"I figured that much out myself when I woke up in NYU Medical Center and not in a Chitauri prison."

Tony takes a deep drink of bourbon. "They're all a little broken. I found Pepper weeping over a cheap replica Captain America trading card. That's what brought me here. Cap is off discovering America, Banner is working in one of my labs, but I swore not to tell where. Natasha said she was going to Paris to shop. Thor took Loki and the Tesseract back to Asgard and hasn't been back yet."

"And Barton?"

"As far as S.H.I.E.L.D. is concerned, he's off the grid. The question is, do _you_ want to find him?

"I have an idea of where he might have gone." He writes it down on a post-it and gives it to Tony. "I need another week," he sighs. He's a realist. 

"Do you want me to come with you? Send you a jet?"

"No. I think I can manage on my own. It's what I do, after all."

"I can keep Fury busy. I have some excellent new tech." Tony grins and Phil smiles back. Tony has never noticed how _kind_ Phil's eyes are, even if it is rumored that he once killed a man with a powdered sugar doughnut.

"Here." Tony hands Phil a phone. "Guaranteed trace-proof. Call if you need anything. And I mean _anything_."

"I will." Phil looks at the phone. "Trace-proof?"

"Absolutely." He holds out his hand. "By the way, Agent, I'm glad you're not dead."

"This may be the first and only time we agree on something." Tony Stark laughs, shakes his hand and leaves him with a salute. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Steve hates, _hates_ modern highways. He sticks with them until he gets to Chicago and then finally gets on Route 66. Mostly two-lane, running through small towns with mom and pop diners and grocery stores. Dingy motels and gleaming new ones trying to capitalize on the old route name. Steve picks mid-price Best Westerns or Holiday Inns where the beds are clean and the rooms are air-conditioned. He finds he likes those modern conveniences. 

He sleeps well and is studying his map when his phone rings. Not his every day phone, but the one that Stark had given him. He hopes the world doesn't need saving again. Once a year seems to be enough. "Yes?"

"Cap, where are you?"

"Tony?"

"I'm the only one that has your number unless you've been handing it around to your admirers."

"Don't be ridiculous -- wait, that's impossible, isn't it?"

"Come on, you like me," Tony cajoles.

Steve sighs. "Why are you calling?"

"Where are you?"

"Outside Springfield, Illinois."

"Feel like a detour?"

"Why?"

"I'm playing a hunch. Head north to Iowa. Town called Waverly. I'm sending you directions."

"Why?" Steve repeats, annoyed at the interruption of his planned journey. 

"Barton."

"Oh." 

"Take your time. Give it three days or so."

"What am I supposed to do with the time?" 

"I'm sending you a list of attractions." 

Steve finds that somewhat alarming. "Like what?'

"Metropolis. The home of Superman. The Mecca of albino squirrels ... the world's largest ketchup bottle."

"Gee, thanks, Tony." Steve's head hurts. 

"You're welcome," Stark says happily. "If you happen to find Barton, give me a call."

"Maybe he doesn't want to be found," Steve says. "Maybe he needs some time alone for ... you know. He and Coulson were ... close."

Tony's silence makes Steve wonder what's going on. "Why don't you do it?"

"I have to go to Paris. Pepper needs to shop. 'Bye." 

Stark disconnects, leaving Steve staring at the silent phone. "The Mecca of albino squirrels. Right." He checks out of the motel and gets on his bike, heading north. More freeways. He sighs. He doesn't want to see Superman. Superheroes are just men, he's discovered. Except for Thor. He's not interested in albino squirrels, but he thinks he'll check out Springfield and the various sites dedicated to Lincoln. As he drives, he wonders why Clint is in Waverly, Iowa? 

^*^*^*^*^*^

Natasha allows the doorman at the Plaza Hotel Athenee to open her room for her. Her arms are filled with bags from the designer shops and a bouquet of red roses that she purchased for herself because of all the flowers in the hotel, red roses are her favorites. She gives him a large gratuity and kicks off her heels. She is about to step out of her dress when the phone rings. She wonders if she's forgotten something in the lobby. "Oui?"

"Natasha?" 

She nearly drops the phone. "Pepper?" 

"The one and only. Tony and I are in the bar."

"I'll be right down." She zips up her dress, puts on a slightly lower pair of heels than she had been wearing, freshens her make-up. There are still dark shadows under her eyes. She hasn't been sleeping well, not even in this beautiful hotel room, in the most beautiful city in the world. She checks her purse and the small .22 calibre pistol she keeps there. It's a precaution, nothing more, she tells herself. 

Tony and Pepper are sitting in a quiet corner of the luxurious bar. A bottle of champagne is in a silver bucket on the bar. Three cut crystal flutes sparkle in the soft lights. Tony, impeccable in a pinstripe suit and Pepper in an elegant navy blue dress, are waiting. When Natasha approaches them, Pepper stands up and embraces her. "How are you?"

"I like Paris." Natasha says. "I have no bad memories here." 

Pepper hands her a flute that Tony has filled. They touch glasses, but they don't make a toast. "Why are you here?" Natasha finally asks.

"That is the question," Pepper says, smiling at Tony. "I found myself swept off in Tony's jet before I could ask him why."

"You've been working hard. I thought you could use a break." He's lying. Natasha can tell a lie from the truth blindfolded. 

Pepper gives him a fond smile. "Am I being dismissed?"

"I don't have a death wish," Tony sips his champagne. "How long were you planning to hide out, Natasha?"

"I don't know. There isn't anything for me to go back to, and a girl has to live."

"What about Barton?"

Natalie can feel herself pale beneath her make-up. "Is he all right?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Tony says. "He's off the grid. I have Cap checking on something for me. I just wondered if you had heard from him."

"You could have called instead of flying across the ocean."

"I could have, but sometimes you need a road trip." 

Natasha sighs and sweeps a strand of blood-red hair from her forehead. "So, how long do I have?"

"The weekend." He kisses Pepper on the cheek. "See you on Monday. I have work to do."

They watch him leave the bar. "What is he up to?" Natasha muses.

"I have no idea. More champagne?"

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Monday morning starts with the breakfast rush. Faces are starting to look familiar to Clint. He asks the customers if they want the usual or if they want to try something new. He pours coffee, flips eggs and pancakes, banters with the regulars. Malvina watches happily from the kitchen where she is prepping for lunch and dinner. After two hours, they flip jobs. 

Clint likes the daily ritual of chopping vegetables, making stock, boning chicken and grinding meat. No store-brought or frozen ground beef for Malvina. He can work in silence with only the sound of a country music station playing on low in the background. His raw nerves and emotions are soothed into an ache that he can live with for another day. 

Despite the good day, Malvina looks worn out. Clint finishes clearing the last of the dinner dishes. It's another hour to closing. "Why don't you let me finish up, 'Vina? I'll put the keys in your mailbox."

"It's these migraines, Clint," she sighs. "Thank you."

"Go. Take some meds and get some sleep. I'll even open up if you're still not feeling well."

"I don't know where you came from Clint, but if you decide to stay on in Waverly, you'll have a job with me. Your mama did a good job."

It hits Clint in the gut -- how many lies he's told, how many losses he's caused and endured. "Thanks, Malvina. I don't know about staying. I'm kind of a wanderer by nature, but as long as I'm here, I'll work for tips." He pats her hand. "I better get those dishes in the dishwasher." 

"Goodnight, Clint." 

After she leaves, he finishes up in the kitchen, cleaning up the counters, wiping them down with a bleach solution, running the dishwasher. He hears the front bell. Ten minutes to close. _Fuck_. 

He ties on a clean towel and goes up front. "What can I get you?" he asks. He doesn't even look at the guy. He's too busy wondering what he can rustle up if he needs a meal. 

"Coffee."

"You got it." He pours a cup and glances up at the reflection in the stainless steel. The man is blond, tall, familiar even in the blurry steel. He turns slowly, the past reaching out to tug at his heart. "Cap?"

"Barton?" They stare at each other as if their presence in the diner is a hallucination.

"How did you find me?" Clint asks. 

"Stark told me to check out this place. He thought you might be here."

"How ...?" Clint shakes his head. There are ways, and then there are Tony Stark's _ways_. He pours a cup of coffee for himself and leans on the counter. "What's Stark's plan?"

"I have no idea. I was riding down Route 66 when I got a call from Stark telling me to go to Waverly and see if you're around. That's all I know."

"Stark always has a plan. You know that. Why isn't he here himself?" 

"He had to go to Paris."

Paris means only one thing to Clint. "Natasha -- he went to find Tasha. The sonovabitch is trying to get us all together again."

"Why?"

"He's lonely?" Clint laughs mirthlessly. "How the fuck should I know?" He sees Rogers wince at his language. "I've got to close up. I'm staying at the inn down the street. There's probably an extra room available since it's Monday."

Steve drains his coffee. "See you there?"

"Yeah. Maybe together we can figure this out." It takes him fifteen minutes to finish cleaning and lock up. He starts walking to the inn. It's a beautiful night; starry and cool with enough tang in the air to make him turn up the collar on his denim jacket. He pauses, ducks into an alley. There is a dark shape under the street lamp: a woman, compact and curvaceous. She takes off a dark wool tam and shakes out her blood-red hair. Clint steps out of the alley and walks towards her. 

She sees him, tenses and then opens her arms. They embrace and Clint smells the perfume in her hair. "Tasha." He breathes in, hugs her tighter. 

"Hello, Clint." She touches his face gently. "You look tired."

"Ten hours of honest labor," he says. He knows she sees beneath the lie. They've known each other for too long not to know when they're lying to themselves or to each other. "Cap is here."

She rolls her eyes, "Stark got to him, too?"

"Apparently."

"Why here? Why not tell us to meet in New York or Malibu?"

"He knows I wouldn't have come," Clint admits. "What was your bait?"

"You."

"And you fell for it?" Clint can't help smiling at her. "The Black Widow?"

"Clint ... don't." She takes in a breath and places her palm on his chest. "I'm just ... It's good to see you."

"You, too, Nat." He takes her hand and sets a gentle kiss in her palm. "So, what do you think Stark is up to? He's not marching to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s drum."

"Not even Pepper knows."

Steve is waiting for them at the desk. They go up to Clint's room and talk. Not really wanting to speculate about Stark's motives, they end up talking about everything but the one thing that is too painful to approach. 

Finally, jet lag catches up to Natasha and she drifts off, curled up on Clint's bed. Clint is beginning to nod off. Steve says goodnight and leaves. Clint showers off the day's sweat and lies down next to Natasha. Her body is familiar. She settles against him. A few years ago, Clint would have kissed her awake, seduced her into sex that would end up in bruises and the taste of blood. Now, it just feels comforting to have her near -- as long as they didn't have nightmares to set them at each other's throats.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Steve doesn't need much sleep. He gets his bike and walks it to the end of the main street before he starts it up and kicks the accelerator. He rides out of town until he finds the cemetery. Angels Rest. Pleasant. Peaceful. He gets out a flashlight and walks past the newer graves to the older ones in the middle. It takes a while, but he finds what he was looking for; Harold and Edith Barton. This is why Barton came to Waverly? 

He calls Tony Stark and tells him that Barton and Natasha are safe and in Waverly. "So, what's the plan?" he asks.

"Plan?"

Steve rolls his eyes. "Don't be disingenuous, Stark. I know you're up to something."

"Give it two more days, Rogers. All will be revealed."

"Why does that make me nervous?"

Stark laughs. "I promise this is good. Really, really good." He disconnects and the signal is cut off like Jarvis flipped a switch. 

Right. He should have gone to the Mecca of albino squirrels. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Phil said he needed a week. A month would have been better, but at least he's more or less upright and able to shower, dress and walk to the end of the block and back without feeling like his lungs are on fire or his muscles trying to tie themselves into knots around his spine. That takes two blocks. With all the medical miracles wrought to bring him back from the brink of death, you would have thought they'd had a few to make him heal faster. He's whining, and he luxuriates in it for a few minutes before he starts living again. 

He's exhausted himself washing dishes and doing his laundry when the secure phone Stark left him rings. His heart nearly stops ... again. Before he can catch himself, he answers, "Coulson." 

"Tsk, tsk, Agent. You're lucky it's not Fury." 

"Mr. Stark," Phil sighs. 

"It's been a week, and I've found -- well, Cap found -- Barton."

Phil feels both relief and dread. "He's all right?"

"Alive and cooking in Waverly, Iowa."

"Cooking?"

"Unexpected, isn't it? Cap found him behind the counter at the local diner." A pause, and then Stark continues. "I caught up with Natasha in Paris. She's in Waverly now."

"Are you trying to re-assemble the Avengers, Mr. Stark? I never took you for a sentimentalist."

"I am an _egoist_ , Agent Coulson. My world is off-center and I'm just trying to set it right again. I'm tired of being the public face of the Avengers Initiative. Fury is being a bastard about this whole thing. Banner won't come out of hiding, and the rest of the team is fractured by loss. _Your_ loss."

Phil wants to tell Stark he's wrong, that he isn't invested in The Avengers Initiative, that he's fine with being dead to the world, but that would be the biggest lie since Eve told Adam that eating an apple would be good for him. He sighs, capitulates because he _aches_ for Clint, and a person can only stand so much pain before he breaks. 

"Two more days, Stark. Then you can send your jet. It's time."

He spends the next two days deciding on his best plan of escape. He has no doubt that Fury has eyes on him and not just for medical reasons. Fury probably has some sort of plan in mind for him; he isn't going to lounge around in a state of semi-retirement indefinitely. 

He always keeps a bag packed in the trunk of his car. Fury probably knows that and hopefully sees it as a matter of habit rather than intent. He rests up as much as possible between trips to the grocery store and to the gym he's joined, but he doesn't overwork his body. He's dropped the nervous habits of his job -- too much caffeine, fats and sugar, not that it ever showed in his physical status. His body is leaner and more muscular than it has been since his days as a Marine. He still moves like an old man. He wonders when the pain will stop gnawing at him. He has pills for that, but he only takes half a dose the night before he leaves. He'll need to be clear-headed and one hundred percent -- as one hundred percent as he can be. 

Really, so much subterfuge to go to Waverly, Iowa to see his lover seems a bit ridiculous until he factors in S.H.I.E.L.D. and Fury. Once he's back to work, he intends to have a few words with Fury and they won't be nice ones. 

The next morning, he dresses in khaki slacks and a blue button-down shirt. He drives to a mall close to the airport. He walks around, buys jeans and a few dark T-shirts. He gets a coffee from Starbucks and picks up a local newspaper. He goes to another store where he purchases a plain black baseball cap and sunglasses. He ducks into another fitting room and changes into the jeans and T-shirt, shading his face with the the baseball cap. It's not much of a disguise, but he hopes S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't monitoring him that closely. He's not a prisoner, he's signed no papers saying he won't contact any of the Avengers. He just wants this to be private, and he doesn't want Fury or Hill showing up on his doorstep to tell him that he can't do this. 

He walks to the other end of the mall and asks the concierge to call a taxi. It's there in five minutes. Once in the cab, he calls Tony to tell him he's ready. Tony gives him instructions for the cab driver, and in ten more minutes, he's walking through the private terminal, out onto the tarmac where a Stark Enterprises jet is waiting. So, this is want it is like to have the world at your beck and call. _Nice._

There is champagne and beef tenderloin sandwiches served by a smiling flight attendant. The seats are leather, easy on his back. The flight will take three hours. Lulled by champagne and comfort, Phil drifts off. It's the best sleep he's had since the drug-induced coma in the hospital. He wakes as the air pressure changes slightly. They're landing at Waterloo municipal airport. Phil wonders if this is the excitement for the day -- the arrival of a corporate jet belonging to Tony Stark. The flight attendant hands him a warm towel. "Will you need anything else, sir?"

"Water, no ice." 

He holds the towel to his forehead, feels it cool slowly. He takes a pain pill and puts on sunglasses and his baseball cap before he steps down to the asphalt. There is a black BMW parked, keys in the ignition and a note on the dashboard. _Don't drive too fast, call home if you get in trouble. Please do everything I would do. "Dad" Stark._

Phil gets in the driver's seat. He turns the key and the GPS system comes to life with Jarvis's voice greeting him, and a map displayed on the windshield. He half expects the car to drive itself, which would be a pity. Only Clint knows how much he loves to drive -- and drive fast. The sad fact is that he is in no shape to indulge himself. He pulls away slowly and heads towards Waverly. 

**Part Two**

Clint wakes up at 4am. Natasha is still curled against him and the temptation to stay in bed is almost enough to make him forget about the diner and reconsider his old life. Almost. He stretches and Natasha is instantly awake. 

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He slides from the warmth of the covers. "I have to go to work."

"Work?" She blinks at him.

"Yeah. The diner. The food doesn't appear by magic. I don't think even Tony has invented food replicators." He pulls on jeans and his T-shirt. "Stop by. I cook a mean breakfast."

She smiles. "I remember." 

"See ya later." Clint says over his shoulder as he throws a flannel shirt on and heads out to the diner. The early morning air is fresh and cool. It's still mostly dark though the far eastern sky is showing the first faint blue of coming dawn. Cap's motorcycle is parked outside. He's leaning against it, his arms crossed. 

"You know we don't open for another hour, right?" 

"Can't I be hungry?" Clint arches a brow. He's seen Cap put away prodigious amounts of food, but he's also seen him go for days without, so that seems to be a specious excuse at best. Cap has the grace to look guilty. "Sorry, you know me too well."

"Kinda." He sighs. "Why are you here?"

"I went out to the cemetery last night. I found your parents' gravesite. I'm sorry, Clint. I didn't know about them and I wouldn't have gone looking if Stark hadn't insisted we come find you."

Clint shrugs. "It's a grave. Anybody can go there. "My mom, she was a good woman and tried to raise me and my brother right, but she was afraid of my father. He wasn't exactly the poster-boy for the great American Dad. He drank, he got mean, he'd hit her. Hell, he'd hit just about anybody in his way -- "

"I'm sorry."

"Why? You didn't do anything."

"Too many people didn't do anything." 

 

Clint shakes his head. "You really _are_ Captain America." The work lights in the diner come on and Clint gives Steve a playful punch on the arm. "I've gotta be Captain Griller. Coffee will be on at 5:30."

Inside, Malvina is starting up the ovens. Clint starts the first carafes of coffee, starts squeezing oranges for juice, takes some eggs out of the cooler to come to room temperature for the early birds. He makes batters for hotcakes and waffles. His special today is maple pecan waffles. Malvina trusts him not to screw up, and he doesn't. He can see the blissful expression on her face when he offers her a sample. 

"So, good?" he asks.

"Passable, Clint. Real passable, but maybe I ought to try another one just to be sure." She's smiling at him. "Saw you talking to that handsome young man outside."

"He'll be back for coffee," Clint says. 

"Seemed like you know each other."

She's fishing, but it's okay. Clint nods. "He's a friend passing through, that's all."

"Hmm." 

Clint looks at the clock on the wall. "Isn't it time to open?"

Malvina polishes off the waffle. "They'll be lining up once word about these waffles hits the streets." She's smiling happily at him, and he feels a pang of guilt because he knows he'll be leaving soon. Who was he trying to fool? He needs danger like a junkie needs a fix. 

Malvina opens the door and Steve is the first one in. He orders the waffles, coffee, juice and sausages. He may not need to eat, but he's got nothing against good food. He sits, along with a number of diners, takes a bite of the waffles and sits with a blissed-out expression on his face. Clint remembers serving the waffles to Phil, seeing the surprise, the thoughtful appreciation and the wide, brilliant smile that lit his face. The pain of the memory is physical. Clint has to go back into the kitchen where he stands hanging on to the counter and trying to hold back the memory until he can face it without feeling like he's being ripped apart.

"Clint, are you okay?" Malvina's hand is warm on his shoulder. 

He shakes it off. "Yeah, just ... got up on the wrong side of bed." He smiles. "I better make some more batter. Those waffles are popular."

When he goes back out, Natasha is sitting next to Steve. She tilts her head. "It's an interesting look."

"What?"

"The towel around your waist. So domestic. Like a falcon in jesses."

Clint looks like she just stabbed him to the heart. "I don't need this." The plate he's carrying makes a ringing sound as he puts it down on the counter in front of her. He takes off the towel and goes back into the kitchen. 

"Malvina, I've got to get some air."

"Sure, hon. You've been looking kinda peaky all morning. Take the day off. I can handle lunch and dinner. You've done the prep."

"I'll be back for the dinner shift, Malvina. I don't want you doing that by yourself."

"Only if you're up to it," she warns him, motherly. Suddenly he wishes she was his mother. He's a grown man but he wants somebody to take him in his arms and tell him everything will be all right. He goes out the back door and gets on his bike, taking off in a cloud of dust.

"Well, that was cruel," Steve tells Natasha. "Why?"

"He shouldn't forget who he is," she says fiercely. "He'll wither and die in a place like this. I know him, Steve, better than anybody else. Better than Coulson."

Steve looks at her levelly. "No, I don't think you do, Natasha." He gets up, pulls enough money for both of their meals and a generous tip out of his pocket, and leaves the diner. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Phil finds a room in an anonymous motel outside of town. It's clean enough, but so plain that it doesn't even have cable TV. There is a small, functional bathroom, a double bed with a faded spread and pillows flat with age. Phil has slept in many worse places that this small, dingy room. Even if he hadn't, he's too tired to hunt for somewhere else to lay his weary body. For a man who is rumored to have killed an assailant with a powder-sugar doughnut (he really didn't. It was the sugar in the eyes that blinded the thug and his hand-to-hand skills that did that), he is in shockingly poor condition. It's vaguely depressing.

He lays down on the bed, and in five minutes is asleep. He dreams about Clint, and flying, and falling, only to be caught in his arms before he hits the ground. 

He wakes with a start to near darkness. The clock on the nightstand reads 6pm. He is wide awake and hungry. He pulls on a dark sweatshirt and running shoes. He checks his phone. No messages. Stark is playing his cards very close to the vest. Phil knows this game. He drives into town, parking on a side street. Most of the storefronts are dark. He stays in the shadows until he is standing in front of the Waverly Diner. The lights are still on. A thin, dark-haired woman is wiping off the counter, she turns to talk to somebody. They come into the frame of the window, and Phil's takes a quick breath. _Clint_. He looks good. Maybe a little thinner. 

Phil wishes he could reach through the glass and touch him. He's not ready for that and he's fairly certain neither is Clint. His pain must be as raw as Phil's damaged nerves. He backs away into the shadows, watches Clint work and wonders how long he can keep up the charade of a normal life when he is meant to soar. 

He's leaning against a lamppost when his phone rings. He answers cautiously. "Yes?"

"You found him?" Tony asks. 

"Yes." 

"And?"

"And I'm standing here outside of a diner watching him clean up and, no, I don't know what will happen next." 

"You'll figure it out," Tony says and dead air is all Phil can hear. He puts the phone back in his pocket. The lights dim in the diner and he watches the woman pat Clint on the shoulder and leave through the kitchen. Clint, in this light, looks tired. He leans on the counter and rubs his eyes. His hair is rumpled. Phil's chest hurts, but not from his wound. 

He takes a breath and walks across the street. He knocks on the door. Clint's head snaps up and he gestures to the _CLOSED_ sign. Phil knocks again, insistent, and the door opens. 

"Buddy, maybe you can't read, but we're closed."

"Coffee?" 

Incredibly, Clint doesn't recognize him and Phil realizes that he's wearing the baseball cap and that people see what they expect to see. Clint isn't thinking about Phil Coulson appearing on his doorstep and wearing a baseball cap because he's fucking _dead_ , and never wears baseball caps. 

Clint turns to pour coffee and Phil figures that it's now or never. He takes off the baseball cap. "What does a guy have to do to get a piece of pie around here? Die?"

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

_What does a guy have to do to get a piece of pie around here? Die?_

Clint starts shaking so hard that the hot coffee slops over his hand and he drops the cup clumsily on the counter, sending a small geyser of coffee onto the stainless steel. His knees buckle and he slides to the floor, his face hidden in his hands.

It's finally happened. He's gone over the edge. He's hearing ghosts. He's insane, or haunted, or both. Maybe Loki is mind-fucking him from a distance. The burn on his fingers is real, the floor beneath him is real, the handle of the cooler digging into his back is real. If he can hold on to these, then maybe he can hold on to his sanity. He rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. He doesn't want to open them for fear of discovering that he is mad, or that he isn't and this is just another nightmare come to plague him. 

He concentrates on the burn, using pain as his anchor as he has done so many times in the past. "If you're a ghost, you'll go away, " he says hoarsely. "If you're a dream, you'll go away when I open my eyes."

"What if I'm real?" Phil asks. He kneels beside Clint. "What happens then?"

"I might have to kill you." Clint still isn't opening his eyes.

"I'll come back in the morning," Phil sighs. "I'm alive and I'd like to stay that way," he says with soft laughter in his voice. "I'm sorry about a lot of things, but not about that." He sets his hand on Clint's shoulder for support as he starts to rise from his knees. 

Coulson's weight on his shoulder is real, warm. Clint opens his eyes. His hand clamps down on Phil's. They stand together. Phil is pale, his eyes sad and kind. "I'll come back in the morning," he repeats. 

Clint takes a steadying breath. "Wait."

In a world where Norse gods walk the earth, where gamma radiation turns a quiet academic researcher into a Hulk, and a hero can be frozen in time and returned to life after 70 years, why is it so hard to believe that Phil Coulson recovered from his death wound? Maybe Loki cast a fucking _glamour_ over _him_ , why not use that same spell to make them believe that Phil was dead? Even without Loki's interference Clint knows from experience that Nick Fury is a manipulative bastard. Why not use Phil's "death" to his own advantage? Though to give him credit, Fury did it to save the Earth. 

It takes a while for all those thoughts and emotions to chase through Clint's blue eyes, but Coulson can see every one of them. "If you get me a cup of coffee, I'll tell you everything."

Clint starts from scratch. Fresh coffee with a sprinkling of cinnamon and a bit of unsweetened cocoa, a clean mug that he warms under the hot water, steamed milk. He cuts a piece of apple pie and tops it with some ice cream.

Phil is watching him with amused, weary eyes. "You don't have to do this for me," he says.

"Who else would I do it for?" Clint asks. He's still shaky, but steadying slowly as the familiar routine settles him. He fills a mug with coffee, froths the milk with a whisk and slowly pours it over the back of a spoon to float it. "Here. You should eat the pie. You look thin."

"Sit with me."

Clint pours himself coffee without the milk. He doesn't sit next to Phil, but he pulls a stool to the service side of the counter and leans his elbows on it, peering at Phil. "How are you here?" He doesn't seen any sign of Loki's magic or evil in Phil. "Why?"

"I'm here because I need to see you, and because Tony Stark put all the puzzle pieces together and decided to do something about it."

"Tasha and Steve are in town," Clint says. "Stark found them, too."

Phil blushes a bit at the information. His hero-worship of Captain America is something he should have grown out of as a ten year-old. Clint finds it endearing. Phil doesn't ask about Steve, however, he asks about Natasha.

"She's ... she's Tasha. She left tears at every designer salon in Paris." 

Coulson has to laugh at that, though he knows that Natasha feels more deeply that she lets on. She _cares_. That is why she was the first person he called when Clint was compromised. He isn't surprised that Stark apparently divined that to his advantage. 

Coulson sips the coffee and smiles. "I missed this." The pie is surprisingly good for having spent a long day under glass. "Did you do the pie, too?"

"Not on your life. That's Malvina's specialty. I just sling hash." He finally meets Phil's eyes, and smiles. "I'm sorry about earlier ... I was a little freaked out."

"Just a little?" Coulson's brow lifts.

"Okay. A lot. I thought I was going insane -- it wouldn't be the first time." He takes a breath. "Did Fury give you the reports?"

"I think Fury has written me off as an asset."

Clint snorts. "His mistake." He pours another cup of coffee and this time he adds milk to his own. "One of many."

Phil doesn't want to talk about Fury right now. That's another conversation. "What reports?" He watches Clint's face still and harden as he looks away.

"After the Chitauri, I thought I'd go mad with guilt. Fury had me investigated ... interrogated ... just to be certain that I was no longer under Loki's control. I can still feel the icy spear in my heart, pulling me out and filling me with his thoughts, his commands. You died because I led Loki right to the heart of S.H.I.E.L.D."

"I didn't die," Phil says patiently. "If it hadn't been you, Loki would have taken somebody else. Somebody weaker who couldn't come back like you did."

That's what S.H.I.E.L.D. psychiatrists have told him. They also gave him anti-psychotic meds that he never took. He hopes he knows the difference between real crazy and the insanity that is life with the Avengers. 

He's quiet for so long that Phil finally reaches out and takes his hand. Clint is surprised, nearly pulls away, but he holds on to Phil's hand like it is a lifeline. "Thank you. It helps." He takes a breath. "I have to close this place up before folks think it's open 24/7." 

"I guess I'll head back to my motel." 

Clint frowns at him. "Where?"

"Outside of town."

He looks tired, gray, all of his years showing with a few more added. Clint can't let him drive like that. "Stay with me," he says. "I'm just down the street at the inn. It's a big room." 

Phil can't refuse even if he wanted to. He doesn't want to go back to the shabby motel to be alone and miserable. "Do you have cable?" he asks, trying to force humor into his tired voice.

"Fifty-seven channels and nothing on," Clint quips. He finishes cleaning up, takes the towel off his waist and readies the coffee urn for the morning. "Let's go."

They walk side-by-side to the inn, shoulders occasionally brushing, much as they have done in the past. It is familiar and foreign, like walking down a street in another country once well known. Clint gives him a sidelong look. "I should warn you, Steve and Natasha have rooms here."

Phil smiles. "If I can't find a way in without rousing their suspicions, then maybe Fury is right about me; however, the roof is not an option, right now." 

"I thought as much." He leads Phil to the back of the inn and they go up the fire escape which just happens to have a landing outside Clint's room. He doesn't know where Natasha is, he hopes that she hasn't decided that his bed is more comfortable than hers, or that he needs company. 

He eases the window open and looks inside. "We're good," he tells Phil. 

"You don't lock your windows?"

Clint laughs. "This is Waverly, not the South Bronx. Malvina only locks the diner to keep customers from sneaking in and eating all her pies, and there wouldn't be much point in locking the room to keep Natasha out."

He's right about Natasha, but for the most part Phil thinks it has more to do with Clint's presence than lack of criminal intent. Even without a weapon on him, Clint looks like a dangerous man. He's not the biggest man, or the most malevolent, but he has a deadly competence about him that Coulson has known from the beginning. He has always felt safe with Clint, even in the early times when everybody was warning him off trusting Barton. Trust has paid off in ways he never expected. He climbs through the window after Clint, looks around the pleasant room and wonders where do they go from here?

Clint holds out a pair of flannel sleep pants and a T-shirt. Phil takes them. The flannel is soft and the cotton shirt smells clean and yet still like Clint. "Thank you." He goes into the bathroom and holds the clothing to his face, breathing in the scent. He washes up and returns to the bedroom. Clint is in his own sleep pants. His chest is broad, his arms muscular. His ribs are close to the skin, but his abs are strong. Phil knows he could run his hand down Clint's side and feel _everything_ , all that smooth skin, curving bone, hard muscle. He could, but he won't. 

Clint turns down the bed and holds the corner of the blanket and sheet up. "Come on, Coulson. You look ready to keel over."

He can't argue with Clint on that one. He slides into the bed. The sheets are cool and soft against his tired body. He closes his eyes. Then he opens them. Clint is standing at the bedside looking as uncertain as Phil has ever seen him. "You can come to bed," he says. 

They both know what they've had in the past yet neither knows what they have now. Clint slips under the covers and they lie side by side, breathing quietly, almost in sync. It shouldn't be this hard, Clint thinks, to sleep with Phil. He takes a deeper breath and relaxes. 

Next to him, Phil moves fractionally closer. Clint raises up on his elbow. "Can I see the scar?" he asks. If he sees it, maybe he'll believe that Phil is here, alive and breathing, and not some trick of Loki's twisted mind. 

Phil nods and lifts the hem of his T-shirt. He turns slightly so Clint can see his back. Phil has looked at it in the mirror and knows that it is ugly -- a red, jagged scar just beneath his shoulder blade. It is sensitive to heat and cold, it burns at times and aches at others. He feels the soft heat of Clint's palm on it; so gentle that he can hardly breathe.

"You should have died," Clint says.

"According to the medics I did ... until they revived me."

"Remind me to buy them drinks when we get back to S.H.I.E.L.D."

Phil smiles slightly. He didn't think Clint would make a career of slinging hash. Clint's hand slides around his waist, spreads wide across his ribs and abdomen, over the smaller scar below his left nipple. He draws Phil closer to his body. Phil relaxes into him.

This ... this is familiar, this is worth dying and living for. Clint's breath is already slowing as he drifts off. Phil listens to him breathe and follows him down to sleep. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

_S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters, New York_

_"You did WHAT?"_ Fury is living up to his name, shouting at Tony Stark. 

Tony widens his eyes innocently. "I found Agent Coulson."

"Goddamn it, Stark. Do you have any idea what a mess you've made?"

" _I've_ made a mess? What you did to us was unconscionably horrific. You threw those bloody cards down in front of Cap. You told us Coulson was dead. You left it to Natasha to tell Barton the 'truth' and you never gave a thought, _one_ thought to the pain you caused. I may be an insensitive bastard, but even I could see the damage you left."

"I needed a team. It was Coulson's idea."

"He thought he was dying! I've been there and I know the mess it makes of your reasoning. Taking advantage of a dying man is damn heartless, even for you."

"You saved the world," Fury tells him. "It needed to be done for the Avengers."

"You know what? It's already been done! _Win one for the Gipper_. So, not original. What did you accomplish for the Avengers? Thor has cut himself off in another galaxy, Banner went into hiding, Cap took off in search of something he's lost, Natasha is on the verge of becoming a mercenary assassin and Barton went off the grid. I only found him because I happened to find Coulson."

"I had a plan."

"Your plan sucked, so I put my own into play." Tony stands up. "I'm not your direct report, Fury, so I can much do whatever I want. I own Stark Industries and Iron Man. If you want them, you'll let me finish this. You'll have Iron Man, the Avengers and Agent Coulson back. If you don't, you'll be holding a weak hand the next time some alien threat comes to our doorstep."

Fury looks like his head hurts. Tony hopes it does. To his credit, however, Fury knows when he's been beaten at his own game by a master. "I can't stop you. Eventually, I would have told them the truth."

"When it was convenient?"

"When I felt it was necessary."

"How very Machiavellian of you." Tony stands up. "I'll be in touch."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Natasha huddles into the warmth of Steve's jacket and looks at the gravestones. "It's not news to me," she says. "I've been here before. It makes me sad." He doesn't say anything and she peers at him in the darkness. "Come on, Captain. I'm cold."

Steve feels a fool for having brought Natasha here. "Next time I'll take you to see the albino squirrels." He looks crestfallen. 

Natasha shakes her head, wondering how on earth this man has managed to stay alive, super-soldier or not. "Sometimes, Cap, you're too incredibly sweet."

Tony steps out of the shadows. "Aw, shucks, you'll make him blush."

"I'm from Brooklyn, remember?" Steve looms over Stark who smirks up at him. 

"Yeah, seventy years ago." He rolls his eyes.

"Stark, Brooklyn wasn't exactly a cow pasture back then. If your family had ever left the wilds of Manhattan you might have realized that."

Tony looks hurt. "I've been to the Hamptons." Steve laughs at that, and the irritation is gone. 

Natasha is getting tired of Steve and Tony's eye-fucking. "Tony, why are we here? Other than to annoy Clint into coming back with us?"

Tony takes a breath, suddenly serious as he looks at them. "I have something to tell you."

Natasha arches a brow. Steve crosses his arms and gives Tony his absolute attention. "Is it about the Avengers?"

"You might say so ... Listen, I was getting some weird vibes off of Fury, so I started thinking about something. Thinking about it led to some investigating. Investigating led me to ... okay. Brace yourself." He looks at them with bright eyes and a hint of a knowing smirk. "Coulson is alive."

If he had told them a nuclear bomb was headed their way -- no, that would have been a call to action -- Silence. Absolute silence for long enough for Natasha to grab Steve's arm. "How is that possible? We saw his blood -- Fury said --"

"Fury is a lying, cheating bastard who believes the end justifies the means."

"We would have done it for less than Coulson's death," Steve says quietly. "How can he justify the lie? Ouch!"

Natasha elbows him in the ribs. "Where is Agent Coulson? Is he --" She doesn't know quite how to ask how he is -- alive, functioning, in a coma, near death? 

"He's here. I expect he found Barton."

"Let's go!" Natasha starts heading towards Steve's motorcycle, but Tony stops her.

"Maybe give them some time before we descend on them in the middle of the night?"

Steve clears his throat and blushes. Natasha makes a frowny-face, but then smiles gloriously. "Why Mr. Stark, I didn't know you were such a romantic."

"I'm not. I don't want to risk getting shot by a pissed-off Clint Barton."

"Good point," Steve agrees, and even Natasha smiles at that. 

"He really is all right? Coulson?"

"He's all right. Not great and still healing, but he's 'The Agents' Agent' we know and love so well." 

"How did you find him? Steve asks.

"Now, that, my friend, is a story. I suggest we have a drink at my hotel and I'll tell you about it."

"Your hotel?"

"Umm, yes. Literally. It's a tax write-off." 

They end up in deserted bar at what looks like an average, boring off-the-highway hotel. Tony tells the bartender to go home, and pours their drinks himself. They sit in the dark with only a candle guttering on their table for light. Natasha curls up next to Steve on a banquette, which is both alarming and enchanting. 

Tony raises his glass of Scotch. "Once upon a time ..." he begins.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
When he first surfaces from deep sleep, Clint thinks he has to be in medical to have had a dream that vivid and long. Either they've given him good drugs or he's been comatose for a long time. But if he's in medical, why is Phil tucked up against him in what is clearly not a hospital bed?

He unglues his eyes to sunlight stealing across Phil's face. The faint translucence of the thin bruised skin around his eyes is a jolt of reality. Clint is afraid to move, afraid to breathe because this could be part of the dream. He touches his knuckles to the stubble on Phil's cheeks. In a dream, would the whiskers be rough against his skin? 

Phil stirs opens his eyes, focuses on Clint, and smiles. "These are either the best drugs I've ever had, or I owe Tony Stark more money than I've made in the last twenty-five years."

"No drug is this good," Clint leans down and puts his lips gently on Phil's. "Except this one, and Stark doesn't need any more money."

"True." Phil's hand cups the back of Clint's neck and holds him there for a proper kiss. 

It's almost perfect, but the rough scar beneath the thin cotton shirt makes Clint cautious and he pulls away reluctantly. "You're not ready for more that this," he says, worry creasing his forehead. "Not without a written note from the doctor."

"Since when do you get to be the boss?"

"Since you got yourself killed."

"I wasn't dead. Anything less than a minute doesn't count."

"It counts enough for me." Phil brushes the hair back from Clint's temple. It's longer than it has been for years, and the tenderness of the gesture makes Clint blush. He pulls Phil close, drapes a leg over his, and rests his head on Phil's pillow. It's Sunday, and he doesn't have to worry about breakfast or Malvina being alone. He doesn't have to worry about anything but how long he can stay in bed without having to get up. 

Five minutes. He hears a scattering noise against his window as if somebody is throwing pebbles against the glass. He groans. _Tasha_.

He gets out of bed reluctantly. Phil is watching him with amusement. "You knew it wouldn't be simple," he says as he swings his legs over the edge of the mattress and winces. He holds up his hand. "My back tightens up, that's all. It'll be fine in a minute." There is another scattering of pebbles. "She isn't going away," he says to Clint.

Clint opens up the window. Natasha, Steve and Tony are standing in the street grinning up at him. "Go away!"

"Not on your life, Barton. We want to see Coulson," Steve tells him. 

Phil pulls Clint away and stands at the window. "I'm not the Pope. I don't give audiences from a window."

"Can we come up?" Natasha asks.

Phil sighs. "Thirty minutes. Bring coffee."

It's starting to feel _normal_ , or as normal as their lives ever are. Thirty minutes gives them time for enough kissing and petting to make Clint feel like an overheated teenager while Phil looks cool and smug. Clint kind of hates him and that is normal, too. 

Nat, Steve and Tony reappear in thirty minutes with tall cups of coffee and a box of powdered sugar doughnuts. It's almost like downtime after an op; like shawarma, only without sadness and exhaustion and blood on their clothes. 

Tony looks around the small bedroom. Phil is stretched out next to Clint on the bed, Barton's arm is draped over his shoulder. Natasha, next to them, is holding Clint's coffee and her own. Steve has appropriated the desk chair, his long legs propped up on the edge of the mattress. For the first time in weeks, Tony's world is set to rights. His phone chimes and he answers it with a smirk. "Director Fury, it's a pleasure."

"No. It's not. We need you -- Iron Man -- back in Manhattan. If by some chance you happen to run into Captain America, Black Widow, and the Hawk, bring them with you. There's some troubling intel coming from Thor's people. I've already sent a team to invite Dr. Banner to join us."

"And Agent Coulson?"

Fury's silence is palpable. "Bring him along, too, since the rest of you won't come without him."

"Damn right. Do I need to come in hot or will a Quinjet be fast enough?"

"Take the jet."

Tony hands the phone to Phil. "We're on the way, sir."

"Agent Coulson -- are you up to this?"

"Sir, you owe me a set of vintage Captain America cards. I'm not going to pass away until you pay up."

"It could take a while. Years. Twenty or thirty."

"Yes, sir. I expect it will." Phil sounds happy. He hands the phone back to Tony. "Thank you. For everything."

"My world was out of alignment. Pepper cried. Work wasn't getting done." He rubs his hands together. "Shall we assemble?"

Natasha gives him a powdered sugar raspberry as she gets off the bed. Tony bats his eyes at Steve who punches him in the arm. They leave, arguing and jostling. Phil sighs and shakes his head. "Two minutes back on the job. How did you survive without me?"

"We didn't," Clint says quietly. "You're the glue, Phil. You're the heart of us. The heart of me. We fought for you. Not for Fury or S.H.I.E.L.D." 

He starts packing while Phil mulls that over. His chest hurts, but not from his wound. "Just out of curiosity, what would you have done if Tony hadn't found me?"

"I would have been a pretty damn good short-order cook. Crap, that reminds me. Malvina."

"We can come back," Phil says. "For a visit."

"So my busman's holiday is over?"

"For now. You know the saying, 'Every cripple has his own way of walking?'"

"Is that what you think we were doing?"

"It's what I did ... until I realized that I needed you to hold me up."

"Fury is going to have to deal with a team of pissed-off Avengers, including Dr. Banner."

"Let me handle Fury. That's my job."

Clint just smiles. "It's good to have you back, sir," he says. What he means is _I love you._ He doesn't say it, but he knows Coulson hears him. 

**The End**


End file.
